


in the eye of the beholder

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Freakytits - Freeform, Season/Series 02, joan x vera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 04:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11751807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera and Joan visit an art museum.





	in the eye of the beholder

**Author's Note:**

> I figured this would be... Sometime toward the middle or end of season two. As a patron of the arts, I love integrating that into my work. I spend a lot of time in local museums so I had to research a bit for this. For the location, I settled on the National Gallery of Victoria.

Away from their respective careers for a day presents its own enchantment. As a source of positive reinforcement, Governor Ferguson brings her Deputy Governor out to pay their respect to the National Gallery of Victoria.

Outside, there exists a large pond with a fountain that spits a geyser towards the bright, blue sky. Posters commemorate the museum's recent installments and renowned exhibits. From the outside, the building bears a resemblance to Wentworth with its brick walls.

With this place, there exists a modern appeal.

Guided by customs and manners, Joan Ferguson holds open the rather overbearing door for her underling. Vera dips her head, shyly mutters her thanks, and scuttles inside. Bemused, Joan saunters behind her.

From above, the windows on the ceiling form a shadowy criss-cross pattern across the ground. They brand Vera's back while she shuffles towards the main desk. As a memento, Vera reaches for the brochure that details all the wings and the current collection on display. She'll hide the map in her nightstand amongst all other keepsakes. Call her sentimental, but this means the world to her.

About to pay, she fishes through her wallet for her credit card. Ever the chivalrous one, Miss Ferguson interferes.

"Nonsense, Vera. My treat."

She pays in cold, hard cash. No trail necessary.

The staff procures two tickets. Joan seems to look down at the bare hand, her lip twitching. Vera uses this as an incentive to grab the tickets. Lazily, they wag within her nimble grasp.

"This place is a maze, Joan. I hope we don't get lost."

Vera Bennett exudes a certain innocence befitting a maiden lost to the woods and wolves. As charming as it may be, Joan Ferguson looks forward to her rewiring.

"Have you never been?" She asks, curiosity infiltrating her husky tenor.

"Well, there were outings when I was young, but Mum said I never deserved to go."

A small shrug.

Despite the difficulty, she shrugs off the pain.

Admittedly, it's impossible to visit every wing of the museum in one fell swoop. Joan drapes her trenchcoat over her forearm, her stare affixed to the younger woman who looks around in wonder, dwarfed by the size of this settlement.

"Where shall we go first? Your choice, Vera."

From deputy to disciple, the choice feels like an extension of Joan's trust.

"I'd like to, erm, see the art that's native to here."

“So we shall.”

So it is written and so it will be. Side by side, they walk in unison, as though they grace the prison compound once more.

Joan wears her hair in a practical ponytail, iron strung throughout her temples. For added contrast, Vera's let her soft curls down. When they bounce, they frame her face in a cheeky, inviting way.

Vera wears an old pearl pendant: a heirloom from an aunt whose connection's been lost. It catches Joan's eyes. In a more intimate setting, she'll ask about it, eager to watch how Miss Bennett will open herself up.

On the second floor, a sculpture catches Vera's eye. It's a native piece, created by Marjery Fletcher, entitled ' Fear. ' The surname leaves s bitter taste in her mouth. She swallows and stares at the nude woman with her back arched, chest puffed out. A serpent encircles the sprite-like female, her face a mask of complete and utter dismay.

The cast depicts shades of green, as though it's made from a resin base or copper that's oxygenated thanks to an impressionable age.

It could be a nod to Eve and the Snake, but Vera doesn't see that. In the eye of the beholder, she draws from her personal experiences.

"Look," Vera says before gently tugging on Joan's sleeve.

The gesture is a childish one. For once, she allows it. Bemused, the Governor regards her with an arched brow.

“What do you see?” Joan asks.

Vera's brows scrunch together in that endearing, albeit simple way of hers. She seems a woman and snake.

Is Fletch the snake or is it someone else?

She feels guilt come bubbling to the surface. She remembers the way in which she broke his trust. Snooped around his home. Discovered too much.

“It's not what I see... Joan. It's what I _feel_.”

Always, she throws herself into the emotional undertide.

“And what do you feel?” Ferguson presses, more akin to a useless psychoanalyst than a friend or a boss.

“Hurt,” she deduces in a single statement, preferring not to elaborate.

Joan doesn't pry.

It's leverage for the war to come.

Vera has finished wandering this hall, it seems.

Joan leads them into the international wing, towards the paintings rather than the photographs.

"I don't understand the allure,” her deputy confesses, finding herself much to simple to be quelled by the complexity of the arts.

Her mentor, on the other hand, begs to differ.

"It doesn't speak to you?" Ever so slightly, her head tilts.

"I don't understand."

Vera frowns.

"Ah, but I think you do."

Enigmatic to a fault, she wears a Mona Lisa smile.

In this exploration of this sacred space, they come across a modest cafe. A light sparks in Vera's eyes; they're not diamonds, but they reflect the brilliance of the sea when the sun first hits those gentle waves.

"Joan?"

"Mm?" She raises a brow, noting the question that hangs between them.

Vera sounds insecure to even utter the Governor's name.

"Can we eat here? The Tea Room looks lovely."

She points, as though Joan is blind and perhaps she is blinded by her quest for the greater good. Not here, not now.

"I prefer to prepare my own meals, Vera," she chides and doesn't mean to sound cruel, only honest in the admission.

While crest-fallen, the brunette pretends to understand. Nods though the sharp pangs in her chest indicate otherwise. Again, they move forward, more akin to Dante and Virgil through each torturous circle of Hell. It's a never-ending cycle.

This time around, the National Gallery of Victoria features a rare piece: Gentileschi's _Judith Slaying Holofernes._ Although a selfish reason, it's the main purpose as to why Joan has brought Vera here.

A large room with grey walls houses this beautiful painting.

It's an homage to Caravaggio. That much is certain.

Mesmerized, Joan stands still. Half-turned, Vera focuses on the woman rather than the art though the lines have begun to blur, haven't they?

"Were you aware that Gentileschi was a woman?"

"I... no."

Joan's palm steels itself against Vera's back. The touch reeks of a hesitance she'll curse herself for later. Beneath it, Vera relaxes.

“I have...” Carefully, Joan chooses her words. Lays the trap, the allure. Plants the seed. “--Always admired strong women. She's no exception.”

It sparks something within the little mouse. It goes unsaid, unwritten, but it lingers in her eyes. In her stance.

Joan takes the opportunity to lean forward, sealing the distance between the two. Her breath washes over the shell of a reddened ear.

"Art is subjective, Vera. We see what we want to see."

Vera hesitates, her jaw working out the nervous kinks that riddle her muscles.

"I like to look, but that's it."

_Of course you do._

"I rather enjoy the hidden context."

The snake doesn't quite withdraw from the maiden. Rather, she plants a well-timed hand atop Vera's small shoulder. Vera surprises her, rests her fingers over her own. Joan doesn't flinch, but tenses slightly from the unpredictable move.

There's a small traveler's size of hand-sanitizer sitting in her purse, begging to be used. This, however, is a sacrifice. Vera Bennett isn't contaminated, isn't tainted. Her purity's charming.

The cleanse can wait; the ritual's just begun.

This painting commemorates the early Baroque period. It's a replica of a replica depicting the original. Both originals can be found in Naples and Florence, miles away. The size betrays the eye; it's larger than life, encased in a gilded golden frame. In essence, two women conspire to behead a man.

For Vera, the context is lost. Rather than reading the description, she invents her own story. In the throes of death, the man reaches for one woman's throat. She holds them down; they both do. Nimble, slender fingers knot in his already tangled hair. The blade cuts deep, embedded in his neck. Blood spurts out. Saturates the bed cloth beneath him.

Joan's timorous voice cuts like a knife.

Echoes in the empty room.

"Thoughts, Vera?"

As though she's an art student that's been abruptly called on, her mouth opens and falls shut. The answer doesn't come easily.

"It's... _violent_."

"Mm. Yet, there's an intimacy connected to the violence. Look how the women forge a bond."

The power of women redefines itself through the saturation and composure highlighted upon their solemn faces.

Vera looks harder. One woman draws closer. The one with the blade pulls away. She turns to study Joan's profile, as if she's imagining the two of them recreating the piece.

"There is a dual meaning to this. Gentileschi, the painter, channels her grief and rage over her personal slight. The other is more Biblical. I'll spare you the details."

Curiously, Vera stares at her maker rather than the contrast and light that make the oil painting more wholesome, more alive.

"I'd like to hear more over tea."

"Shall we?"

Joan extends her arm and Vera accepts the offering.  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I'm aware, Artemisia Gentileschi's ' Judith Slaying Holofernes ' is not in the National Gallery; that is an extent of fiction on my part. I chose the painting for both its symbolism and its beauty. Additionally, the sculpture that captures Vera's attention is this one: https://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/explore/collection/work/5368/
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
